What Lies Ahead
by Velveteen Nightmare
Summary: Sequel to "Once Again", gives new meaning to phrase "old friends"
1. Default Chapter

Enjolras walked down the street thoughtfully. If his instincts were to be trusted, and they usually were, the time he and his friends had been so long waiting for might finally be close at hand. And since his friends were all once again adults they could all finally get to work at achieving that goal.

His boot hit an uneven patch and Enjolras stumbled slightly. Something fell off of the top of his hat and into his face causing him to sneeze violently several times in short succession.

Wah-Choo!

WHA-Choo!

A—WHA-CHOO!

Sniffling Enjolras rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to clear his vision. In his blurry-watery field of vision, he saw the familiar form of Courfeyrac jauntily stride.

"Good day, Courfeyrac." Enjolras sniffed.

His friend stopped and gazed at him oddly. "Hullo, monsieur."

"Monsieur?" Enjolras tried to laugh, but ended up wheezing instead. He felt decidedly odd. "I thought you despised formalities, Chrisophe?"

Courfeyrac took a step away from him. "I do not know you."

"Of course you know me, you half-wit. Its me, Enjolras!" He fairly snarled at the bewildered law student.

"Enjolras? You can't be...you..." Courfeyrac's eyes widened slightly. "Did you see Orka, today by any chance?"

"Yes. I just came from there."

Courfeyrac's lips twitched slightly before he burst into a peal of laughter.

"What is so blasted amusing?!" Enjolras hissed.

"This way, my dear...old man." Courfeyrac clutched his side as he uttered the brotherly familiarity. He took a hold of Enjolras' sleeve and guided him to a store front window and pointed at their reflection.

Enjolras stared.

And stared.

He then uttered a violent curse followed by the name "Orka".

The reflection showed Courfeyrac with his youthful countenance, standing beside a man that the people on the street simply and innocently (yet mistakenly) took for his grandfather.

Whatever had fallen off of Enjolras' hat had turned him into a little old man.


	2. Same Old Story

Courfeyrac studied his leader's features with barely concealed hilarity. Enjolras' tall frame was stooped slightly, and he was obliged to lean on his walking stick for support. His facial features were withered and wrinkled and now sported a couple of moles and an impressive age spot on his brow. The lips that had made so many young girls giggle and titter with fanciful anticipation were now shriveled and parted revealing a mouth with gaps hither and yon, where teeth used to be. Enjolras' golden mane had turned white and wispy, barely covering any of his plate.

"You're bald!" Courfeyrac blurted out, obnoxiously.

Enjolras hit him across the shoulders with his walking stick, leaning against a wall for support. Courfeyrac had enthusiasm about everything he did, which was wonderful when one was planning revolutions. However, there were times when Courfeyrac could be quite maddening.

Courfeyrac was still grinning as he rubbed his shoulders. "Now, now, grandpere, you know what the doctor said about exerting yourself."

"Courfeyrac," Enjolras winced at how his voice quavered in typical elderly man fashion, "if you do not stop making a complete jackanapes out of yourself, and start helping me right this instant, _when I do_ get back to myself I am going to wring your neck for pleasure."

"You would not be the first. Nor the last." Courfeyrac quipped, unfazed by the entirely valid threat of bodily harm. "Fine. Come along, grandpere Hector, let us find a place to have a bite to eat, and then set about getting you back to your menacingly majestic self."

"Eat? How can you think about eating at a time like this?" Enjolras asked, swatting away the arm that Courfeyrac offered for support. He then staggered and was compelled to take it.

"I'm hungry." Courfeyrac said simply. "I'll buy you something as well, of course."

"You are beyond belief, Christophe." Enjolras muttered as Courfeyrac bouncingly led him down the streets. He didn't have much time to reflect on the odd personality of his friend. Enjolras discovered that with every step he took, his joints cried out in protest. He was forced to do an odd kind of shuffle at Courfeyrac's side, and even at that deliberate pace, aches and pains assaulted him from his limbs. To make matters worse, his vision had never entirely cleared, and it occurred to him that he was in desperate need of spectacles.

Despite his poor vision, Enjolras had no trouble in recognizing the structure that Courfeyrac eventually led him to. "Corinth?" He gasped in between wheezes. Courfeyrac drug him inside and up the stairs, where a group of familiar figures stood smoking and playing billiards.

"Good day, fellows!" Courfeyrac greeted.

"Good day, Courfeyrac." Joly and Jean Prouvaire echoed.

"Who's the war relic?" Bahorel inquired with his usual tact.

Enjolras glared at Bahorel. "I have told you, time and time again, that despite the older generation's aversion to change, we should still treat them with respect them and treat them with kindness. They have seen '93, they have tasted it, and then had it taken away, Bahorel, and for that alone we need to respect them." He broke off into a wheezing sort of cough again.

Prouvaire, Joly, and Bahorel looked at Courfeyrac, hoping for a rational explanation. Then they thought better of it and looked at Enjolras instead. In the mass of wrinkles and odd growths it was impossible to pick out Enjolras' youthful visage. However, for this trio of doubting Thomases, it was the eyes that quelled their hesitation. The sharp blue eyes were unmistakably those of their leader.

Enjolras felt palpable relief as his friends expressions changed from those of hesitation to those of recognition.


	3. I'd Like to Meet Jehan's Grandpere

"Amazing!" Jean Prouvaire marveled after Enjolras explained what had occurred. "You have all of the wear and tear of a _life time_ on your frame; yet none of the wisdom gained."

Bahorel snorted in approval. "Nicely put, Jehan."

The poet colored quickly. "I didn't mean...that is....I think perhaps I could have phrased...."

"Forget it, Prouvaire." Enjolras muttered, leaning backwards in his chair. "We'll just have to...to..." Within minutes he was snoring noisily with his mouth wide open and a tendril of drool cascading down his chin.

Coufeyrac stared, his eyes watering with mirth. "I never...want to forget this moment." He told Bahorel.

Joly frowned and looked at Prouvaire anxiously. "What if he passes on?"

"With the racket he's making he's more likely to wake the dead, than he is to join them." Bahorel muttered, crumpling a cloth napkin and shoving it into Enjolras' open maw.

Enjolras gagged and shot daggers at his friends as he clutched the sodden cloth. Prouvaire motioned with his head towards Bahorel, in what he hoped was a discreet manner. Enjolras obligingly gave Bahorel a chilling look. "If you are all quite done having your fun, could we possibly set out and see if we can get me back to my youth? And...Joly, kindly stop checking my pulse. I assure you if I expire you'll know it. Now, can we please go?"

Courfeyrac looked put out. "But I wanted 'ferre and the others to see you like this."

"Your concern is heartwarming." Enjolras said sardonically.

"We ought to get you a warmer coat or a scarf." Jean Prouvaire said. "We always keep my Grandpere Bernard warm whenever we take him places. Of course, he's convinced he's a Shetland pony, so often we just throw a blanket on him when...we..." Prouvaire blushed and trailed off when he saw how his friends were looking at him. "Or perhaps you're warm enough, Enjolras." He amended.

"I'm tired." Enjolras muttered. "I feel like I've run a race...and I've only walked a few blocks and climbed a few stairs." He ran a hand over his bald head and winced, feeling the pangs of self-consciousness. "Courfeyrac, go ahead an order your meal. I'll join you in dining...perhaps after I eat I'll feel stronger."

"Make certain you order something soft, aged leader. You have more gaps than teeth." Bahorel advised.

"Thank you." Enjolras replied, making it clear with his tone that he meant something else entirely. "Courfeyrac, could you hang my hat up?"

"Of course ancient one." Courfeyrac grabbed that hat and tossed it into the air, sneezing violently as something came off of it. He went into the back of the room to hang up the offending hat. Courfeyrac passed a mirror and dropped the hat on the floor. It rolled in a neat circle at his feet, while he stared at the mirror in good natured disbelief.

Then he shrugged and went back to his friends. No use in belaboring the obvious, he thought cheerfully. They were bound to notice anyway...there really wasn't any point in exclaiming 'Hey I look like a prune with feet!' or the like. No, it was just much easier (and vastly more entertaining) to pretend as if nothing were wrong and to look up with polite incredulity when someone pointed out he now resembled an Egyptian mummy.

Courfeyrac grinned with anticipation as he made his way to sit down beside Enjolras.

He loved his life.


End file.
